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I care not : though this face be seen no more,
The world will pass as cheerful as before.
Bright'as before the day-star will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor fiorms nor comets will my doom declare,
Vor figns on earth, nor portents in the air;
Unknown and filent will depart my breath,
Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet fome there are (ere spent my vital days)
Within whose breafis I wish my tomb to raise:
Lov'd in my life, lamented in my end,
'Their praise would crown me as their precepts mend:
To them may these fond lines my name endear,
Not from the poet, but the friend fincere.

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THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. PITY the forrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whofe days are dwindled to the shorteft span;

Oh! give relief—and Heav’n will bless your ttore. These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak;

These hoary locks proclaim my leigthen'd rears; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel to a stream of tears. Yon houfe, erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For plenty there a residence has found,

And grandeur a magnificent abode.
(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)

Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial forc'd me from the door,

To feek a shelter in an huinbler shed.
Oh! take me to your hofpitable dome!

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,

For I am poor, and miferably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relier,

And tears of pity could not be repreti. Heav’n sends misfortunes-why should we repine ?

'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the ftate you fee: And your condition may be foon like mine

The child of forrow-and of misery, A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I sprightly haild the morn; But ah! oppreflion forc'd me from my cot,

My cattle dy’d, and blighted was my corn. My daughter-once the comfort of my age!

Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandon’d on the world's wide-fiage,

And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife-sweet foother of my care!

Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree, Fell-ling’ring fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whose days are dwindled to the Mortest span;

Oh! give relief—and Heav'n will bless your store.

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THE BULWARKS OF SOCIETY.

WHAT constitutes a ftate ?
Not high-rais'd battlement, or labour'd mound,

Thick wall or moated gate ;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd;

Not bays and broad arm'd ports,
Where, laughing at the fiorm, rich navies ride;

Not starr'd and spangled courts,
Where low-brow'd bateness wasts perfume to pride;
No :-MEN, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued.

In foreft, brake, or den,
As beatis excel cold rocks and brambles rude;

Men who their duties know,
But know their RIGHTS, and knowing, dare main-

tain, Prevent the long-aim'd blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain :

These confiitute a state,
And sovereign L Aw, that states collected will,

O’er thrones and globes elate,
Sits emprefs, crowning good, represling ill;

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend ÖPPRESSION, like a vapour finks,

And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD, THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind flowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the gliminering landscape on the fight,

And all the air a solemn fiillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowfy tinklings lull the diftant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient lolitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where leaves the turfin many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hainlet Neep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the liraw-built shed, The cock's Thrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more thall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or buty housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to Thare. Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the fiubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bow'd the woods beneath their liurdy tiroke: Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and defiiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e?er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. for you, ye proud, impute to these the

If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raile, Where through the long-drawnaille and frettedvault,

The peeling anthem fwelis the note of praile. Can fioried urn, or animated buít,

Back to its manfion call the feeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,

Or flattery footh the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empires might have sway'd,

Or wak'd to ecfiafy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with ihe spoils of time, did we'er unroll;
Chill penury repreís’d their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the foul..

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Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear :
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And walte its sweetness on the detert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft;

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Some lovely fair, whose unaffected charms

Shone with attraction to herself unknown ; Whofe beauty might have bless’da monarch's arms,

And virtue cast a luftre on the throne.
That humble beauty, warm’d an honest heart,

And cheer'd the labours of a faithful ipouse;
That virtue form’d for every decent part,

The healthful' offspring that adorn'd their house. Th' applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to defpile, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes; Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The ftruggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine, of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the muse's flame. The thoughtless world to majesty may bow,

Exalt the brave, and idolize fucceis ; But more to innocence their safety owe,

Than pow'r, or genius, e'er confpir’d to bless.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble firife,

Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool fequefier'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way,

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